


a little bit genghis khan

by WeeBeastie



Series: after all verse [8]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Flogging, Jealousy, Light BDSM, M/M, Silver being kind of a shit, but it ends well, old pirate husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 14:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10946529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: 'cause i'm selfish, i'm obscenei get a little bit genghis khandon't want you to get it onwith nobody else but me





	a little bit genghis khan

**Author's Note:**

> Another old pirate husbands piece, woo! This one has been a while coming. It references my other works ‘puppy love’ and ‘work it out’ specifically so if you don’t have the time/inclination to read all the previous parts (I write a lot, and pretty fast, sorrynotsorry) I suggest you at least get the gist of the first one plus those two or you might get confused. Moving on!
> 
> Title and lyrics in the description taken from “Genghis Khan” by Miike Snow because no matter how not-jealous my old Flint may claim to be, he can sometimes get a little Genghis Khan (in the sense of the song, anyway) when it comes to my old Silver. Or so he’d have you believe, my old Silver is kinda unreliable as narrators go, idk.
> 
> As per the tags there is a wee bit of BDSM in this part. Specifically there’s a pretty detailed scene involving a cat o’nine tails/flogger/lash/captain’s daughter or whatever other colorful name you’d like to call it. There’s also a little bit of angst but like, it lasts for maybe half a second, so don’t worry. Rated E for the BDSM and because there are orgasms involved in this, obviously. My old dudes get up to a LOT of that kind of thing. Pretty impressive given their ages.
> 
> Lastly and most importantly, this fic is dedicated to Elle and El (heh) for enthusiastically encouraging the idea of the cat o’nine and letting me ramble about my ideas to the both of them for like, ages. Y'all are the best kind of depraved, don’t change. <3

It's been a long, hot, dusty day. Silver’s patience is wearing thin as he makes his way home, when suddenly their neighbor Claude’s mother, Babette, waves and calls to him from her front porch. She's been going against Flint’s wishes and speaking to Silver in English lately, a courtesy he greatly appreciates.

“Hallo, Monsieur Vane! Would you and your cousin Monsieur McGraw like to come to our home for supper tonight?” she asks, smiling at him. He pauses to lean on the fence in front of her house, thinking. Flint would likely want him to find a polite way to say no; he's become something of a homebody and prefers quiet evenings with just Silver, their dog, and a pile of books. Usually a cup of rum, maybe two if he's feeling like living on the edge.

Silver considers all of this, then gives Babette his answer. “Madame, we would love to, thank you so very much for inviting us,” he says gallantly with a big smile on his face. “We’ll come over soon, around sundown, if that suits you?” he asks.

“Perfect,” Babette says, smiling back at him. “We will see you then, Monsieur Vane,” she says. He bids her goodbye and walks wearily across the dirt road to his and Flint’s little blue house, Junior greeting him enthusiastically as soon as he's inside the front door.

“Yes, hello, son. I'm finally home, I know you're happy to see me,” he says as Junior turns in excited circles in front of him, then shoves his blocky head into Silver’s hand so he'll scratch behind his ears. Silver complies, of course, because he wouldn't do anything else.

“John, is that you?” comes Flint’s voice from upstairs.

“No, it's some other one-legged man who lives in your house and calls the dog ‘son,’” Silver calls back as he starts up the spiral staircase to the second floor.

“Arsehole,” Flint mutters to him when he arrives at the doorway of their bedroom, watching intently as Flint pulls his trousers up and shrugs a clean charcoal-colored shirt on over his head. He looks like he's just had a bath; his skin is flushed a faint pink under all the freckles and his hair is damp, pulled partly back from his face in a neat little ponytail that reminds Silver of when they first met.

“I won't deny that,” Silver murmurs, approaching Flint and resting one hand on his hip, leaning in close to kiss his whiskered cheek in greeting. “I’m glad to see you getting yourself ready, since we're going out soon,” he says, then scuttles back out of the way, trying to make a hasty exit before Flint can register what he's said.

“Quit hopping backward, I see you trying to leave before I can figure out what you're saying,” Flint says, folding his arms over his chest and leveling a withering ‘what have you done now’ gaze at Silver. “I heard you. Out with it.”

Silver sighs and leans on his crutch, deliberately not looking at Flint and pretending to be very interested in the ornate rug that decorates their bedroom floor. “Babette, Claude’s mother, asked me if we wanted to come over for supper tonight. I said yes,” he says, still looking down at the rug, one hand resting idly on his belt buckle.

“You know how I feel about visiting with the neighbors,” Flint says with a long-suffering sigh. “Look at me. John. Why did you do this to me?”

Silver raises his eyes from the floor, rolling his shoulders back to try and ease some of the ever-present tension he carries there. He's been missing his leg and bodily compensating for its absence for so many years, his shoulders feel like they're permanently torqued, muscles knotted in such a way that they'll never truly loosen back up. “Because if we don't at least occasionally socialize with our neighbors, we'll be too conspicuous. I know you want to keep a low profile, and believe me so do I, but at a certain point it looks even more suspicious to stay in the house avoiding everyone all the time.” He approaches Flint again, slowly, deliberately letting his crutch thump on the floorboards. “They’ll start to gossip about what it is we _really_ get up to in this house, all alone, neither of us ever seen around the parish with a woman.”

Flint exhales quietly, his expression gone unaccountably soft, his gaze fixed on Silver’s mouth. “I suppose you do have a point there. We ought to keep up appearances,” he says, reaching out to tuck Silver’s hair behind his ear, then giving that ear a little tweak. “Mustn’t be alone together too much or the neighbors will talk.”

“Little do they know what really happens here,” Silver rumbles, feeling inexorably pulled forward, like he just has to kiss Flint or something terrible will happen. He crushes their lips together, both hands coming up to cradle Flint’s face tenderly.

“Enough,” Flint whispers when he pulls back, then kisses Silver one more time like he can't help himself. “I can't have you getting me excited, not if we're going to supper at the neighbors’ soon,” he says.

“You’re right,” Silver says with a heavy sigh, reaching down to blatantly adjust himself in his trousers, feeling a smug thrill when he catches Flint eyeing him hungrily. “We should go before we...lose track of time,” he says, shifting his weight to not-so-subtly push his hips forward.

“Stop trying to draw my attention to your impressive cock, you brat. Save that for later tonight,” Flint says, shoving at him playfully before side-stepping around him, going downstairs to put on his coat and shoes. Silver just grins, then turns to amble after Flint, entertaining himself with thoughts of what they'll get up to later.

“I believe I'm a little too old to be a brat, don't you?” Silver asks Flint once they're both downstairs in the front room, getting prepared to go out.

Flint eyes him as he shrugs into his coat, tugging it sharply into place and smoothing his hands down the front of it. “You could be ninety-nine and you would still be a brat,” he informs him curtly, then steps into his shoes and makes for the front door. “Shall we?” he asks, gesturing.

Supper at Claude’s parents’ home turns out to be far more interesting than either of them could've guessed, owing solely to the presence of one unexpected person - Mad Max, the eccentric sailor/piercer/tattoo artist and current lodger at the parish’s sole tavern. Also currently the object of Claude’s ardent passions, if Silver is interpreting their lingering glances and flirtatious smiles correctly (and he knows he is).

“We just adore Max,” Babette is saying enthusiastically in English over the first course as Flint and Silver, seated next to each other, exchange subtle looks of disbelief. “It seems our boy met him in de Lioncourt’s tavern some time ago and they became fast friends.”

“Fast friends, indeed,” Silver says, and just barely manages not to react when Flint kicks his remaining shin under the table.

“Who wouldn't want to be friends with him? You and your husband 'ave raised a right proper gentleman, ma'am, you should be very proud,” Max says to Babette, smiling in a secretive, borderline intimate way at Claude.

Silver keeps it together for the rest of the meal, despite the overwhelming lack of subtlety between Claude and Max, and even has the bright idea to invite the two young men across the road for a nightcap at his and Flint’s home after dessert. They readily accept before Flint can put a stop to the idea, though Silver can feel him glaring daggers at the back of his head as they walk across the road after supper, Claude and Max trailing behind.

“You know I don't particularly enjoy having people in our house, especially at night,” Flint mutters just loud enough for Silver to hear.

“Yes, I know, you're set in your ways and are essentially a hermit. You'd prefer to only ever see me and the dog, and perhaps once in a great while go to the market or the tavern. But this was simply too amusing an opportunity for me to let it lie,” Silver says, grinning crookedly over his shoulder at Flint. He leads the way through their gate and up the front steps, opening the door and ushering everyone inside ahead of himself.

“Why don't we make ourselves comfortable in the sitting room? It's cozier than the parlor, and the chaise lounge is especially comfortable for my poor weary self,” Silver says, playing at being the gracious host. “Max, my boy, would you mind fetching a bottle of rum and some cups for us from the liquor cabinet? It's that way,” he says, pointing.

“Sure thing, Jean,” Max says, turning toward the parlor. “Claude, come with me, hey? I might need extra hands to carry everything,” he says smoothly, and Claude hurries after him while Flint and Silver go to make themselves comfortable in the sitting room.

Silver settles himself on the chaise, Flint sitting across from him in an armchair. Long minutes pass, and Max and Claude are still conspicuously absent. “Do you suppose they got lost? The house isn't that big,” Silver says innocently.

“Perhaps we ought to go looking for them,” Flint suggests, a familiar old gleam in his eyes. He may be none too pleased about having his privacy invaded, but Silver can tell he's just as amused by Claude and Max as Silver is himself.

Silver pushes himself up from the chaise and creeps stealthily through the house with Flint, holding one hand up to halt him and leaning around a corner, peering curiously into the parlor.

Max has Claude enveloped in a passionate embrace, his fingers tangled in Claude’s hair and one thigh pressing between both of Claude’s. The two are of a height but Claude seems to be almost swooning into Max’s arms, his elegant fingers clutching desperately at Max’s impressive muscles as they kiss like they've been hungering for each other all night.

Silver feels something entirely unexpected, like rejection or irritation, settle into the pit of his stomach at the sight of them together. He pushes it down and makes sure Flint has seen what he's seeing, then makes the biggest racket possible with his crutch and his voice. “I’m telling you, Jacques, they don't need our help, but if you insist,” he says loudly as they approach, giving Claude and Max ample time to separate. He hears a decent amount of rustling and whispering, including what sounds like Max soothing a near-frantic Claude. “Ah, there you two are!” Silver says with forced levity as he steps into the parlor.

“Uh. Yeah. Sorry, see, the thing of it is, we...” Max says, then looks helplessly at Claude.

“Max is not feeling well,” Claude blurts out, glancing at him sideways. “My mother and her rich cooking, you know, all the-- how do you call it. Butter. He is going back to the tavern and I am going...ahh...”

“To walk me back. So’s I get there alright, what with how late it is,” Max says, covering for Claude rather clumsily. If Silver isn't mistaken, there's a fresh love bite blooming purple near the collar of Max’s shirt, not quite completely hidden.

“Yes, excellent idea. I'm sure a man like Max needs a man like you, Claude, to help defend his honor on a deserted parish road,” Flint says flatly, clearly not buying it. “I do hope you feel better, Max. I'll show you out,” he says, moving to do just that.

Silver finds himself alone in the still, silent house, feeling a curious mix of emotions that he doesn't much want to examine too closely. Instead he goes upstairs to his and Flint’s bedroom, slowly divesting himself of his clothing along the way. All he wants to do, suddenly, is go to sleep.

He's in bed, lying on his back with his arms folded behind his head, by the time Flint returns. He hears him downstairs talking to Junior, hanging up his coat, taking off his shoes. He hears Flint’s bare feet padding up the staircase, and then he's there in the doorway, looking curiously at Silver. “In bed already? What, did Babette’s cooking turn your stomach, too?” he teases him gently.

Silver sighs, shifting restlessly in bed. “No. It was bland and Claude’s right, she uses too much butter. But I feel fine,” he assures Flint. “I’m just tired, that's all it is.”

“Alright,” Flint says, studying him a bit closer now, like he knows there's something Silver isn't telling him. “Well, I'm going to have a drink downstairs and then I'll be up. Goodnight, my dear,” he says tenderly.

“Goodnight,” Silver says, then turns on his side, putting his back to Flint. He hears the bedroom door ease shut, then closes his eyes, intent on going to sleep before his intrusive thoughts can start creeping up on him.

He wakes an hour or so later when Flint slips into bed next to him. He presses up behind Silver, putting one arm around his waist and splaying his hand possessively over Silver’s lower stomach. The heat of him is enticing, and Silver wonders if perhaps they might resume what they started so many hours earlier. He holds still, waiting to see what Flint will do next, but he does nothing - just holds Silver close and falls asleep with his arm around him, the ring Silver gave him glinting lowly in the moonlight.

Silver finds himself feeling immensely disappointed at Flint’s lack of action, much more so than he usually would at such a small thing. It takes him another hour of lying still in the darkness, battling his own thoughts, to fall asleep again.

 

\---

 

Silver is up before Flint the next day, and he finds himself in something of a black mood. He makes the tea while grumbling under his breath, and when Flint comes into the kitchen, Silver doesn't so much as look at him.

“Good morning, James,” Flint says in a remarkably accurate imitation of Silver’s voice, which just annoys him further with how good it is. “Why good morning, John, how lovely it is to see you today,” he replies to himself. Silver brings his tea over, scowling, and puts the teacup down in front of him with a clatter.

“Here,” he says, then sits down across from Flint with his own strong, bitter tea, sighing pointedly and avoiding looking at Flint.

“Now, this is interesting,” Flint says, regarding Silver keenly. “I get the sense that there's something you think you don't _want_ to talk about, but you really do _need_ to talk about it, for your wellbeing. Except, of course, you don't like to just blurt out something sensitive and personal to me without rather a lot of sighing and carrying on first, so you'd rather I ask and press and pester until finally you have no choice but to explode at me, wave your hands in my face, and stalk around here like you think you're going to intimidate me by being loud.” He sips his tea, then gingerly sets the cup down, smiling cunningly at the shocked expression Silver can feel on his face. “I’m on the right track, then.”

“Fuck you,” is all Silver can think to say at first. He scrubs a hand over his face, wishing his pipe were nearby so he could indulge in a little tobacco to soothe his jangling nerves. “It’s Claude and Max. Specifically Claude,” he finally says, and it's almost physically painful to get the words out.

“Go on,” Flint says indulgently, and Silver hates him just a little, for a moment.

“I...well, shit,” he snarls, frowning hard as he tries to find the words. He knows what it feels like in his chest, in his stomach, in his racing mind. But getting those feelings to come out as words is a challenge, as always. It's the grand joke of his life, he thinks - he talks all the time, and sometimes so eloquently and charmingly, too. But when he really needs to, in an emotionally charged situation, he finds it exhausting just trying to string words together. “I felt something odd, seeing him last night in an embrace with Max. Something I didn't expect to feel,” he finally says.

“Jealousy?” Flint suggests, helping himself to one of the sugary little French pastries on the table that Silver always makes in spite of Flint’s insistence that sweets aren't for breakfast. Flint usually eats one, sometimes two, every morning.

“No, that's not it. Almost disappointment, somehow. I don't know why. Perhaps because...” Silver trails off, looking down into his tea instead of at Flint like the right words will be spelled out in the leaves at the bottom of his cup.

“Ah, I see. Because Claude used to only have eyes for you, but now that he's found himself exuberantly entangled with Max, he no longer hangs on your every word or stares helplessly at the front of your trousers,” Flint says, blinking slowly at Silver, who risks glancing at him and immediately regrets it. “You enjoyed the attention. You weren't ever actually going to seduce him - I think he might've died on the spot if you did, honestly - but you liked how powerfully attractive you were to him. You're not that to him anymore, because boys his age are fickle creatures and he's moved on to Max, who is considerably younger than you are - which I'm guessing is also a thorn in your side. All of that, combined with my unfortunate lack of attention toward you last night, has made you feel--”

“Unwanted,” Silver cuts him off, because he's had enough of Flint telling him how he thinks he feels, even if he is infuriatingly, absolutely correct. “Ignored. Unattractive,” he says, and the words make his skin crawl. He _hates_ talking like this, putting into words the unkind thoughts he has about himself.

“John, if you really feel that unattractive, I am either doing something I shouldn't or not doing something I should,” Flint says seriously. He waits until Silver has managed to look at him again, then continues. “Let me help you. Whatever you need, I'll do,” he says with affection, reaching across the table to settle one hand gently on Silver’s shoulder, giving it a little squeeze.

An erotic, tantalizing image suddenly enters Silver’s mind unbidden and he inhales quietly, meeting Flint’s gaze. Perhaps there _is_ something Flint can do for him. “Aren’t you at all bothered that I'm so distraught about not having another man’s attention on me anymore?” Silver asks carefully, narrowing his eyes at Flint.

Flint seems to consider what he's saying and what he might really mean by it. “I suppose I might be, yes, now that you mention it. What are you playing at?” he asks.

“Do you really own a cat o’nine tails or were you just riling me up in the heat of the moment?” Silver asks in a rush, feeling the tips of his ears go pink.

“I really own one, I wouldn't lie to you about something like that,” Flint says evenly. “I think I'm beginning to follow. You need to face the consequences for getting so caught up in Claude’s affection toward you, and being so blatantly upset about not having it anymore,” he says slowly, eyes roaming over Silver’s face. Silver can feel the weight of his gaze. “You need to be reminded, firmly, who you belong to, who wants you most and loves you best. Because you remember, don't you, what happened that time I caught you flirting with Claude. What that did to me, and what I did to you in return.”

“I remember,” Silver says, feeling heat spread through him at the memory of Flint tackling him and fucking him senseless on the dining room floor. “I remember very well,” he says, shifting restlessly in his chair. He had Flint’s teeth marks all over him for days; how could he forget something like that?

“So you understand, then, what I have to do now. Meet me in our bedroom in an hour, and be prepared,” Flint says. He finishes his tea and stands up, leaning down over Silver. “I’ll give you exactly what you need,” he all but purrs, and lord help him, Silver is already hard. Flint retreats upstairs, and Silver is left on his own to figure out what he meant by ‘be prepared.’

He finds Flint in their bedroom an hour later, his shirt off and an open wooden trunk on the dresser in front of him. It's the trunk that Silver has spied hidden under the bed before, and has tried numerous times to break into, unsuccessfully. Silver is not totally surprised to see what it contains - things he's seen in brothels and strangers’ bedrooms, things like some he's owned himself before, and others he'd only ever heard of but never seen til now. The centerpiece of the impressive collection, which Flint is holding, is a well-loved cat o’nine. It's black, wicked-looking, with long thin braided leather ‘claws’ that make the hairs on the back of Silver’s neck stand up.

Flint turns to look at him. “I told you to be prepared, yet here you are with your clothes on and your hair down,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “Get undressed, and put up your hair so it's out of my way. You're absolutely certain you want to do this?” he asks, looking Silver up and down.

“Yes,” Silver says enthusiastically, feeling his heart beat faster as he sheds his clothes and ties his hair back in a knot. He makes his way cautiously to the bed and lies down across it sideways on his stomach, his back to Flint.

“Good, good. We have some things to discuss first, before we begin,” Flint says. “We need to set limits and expectations. What do you want? Equally as important, what don't you want?” he asks.

“I...want you to use the cat o’nine on me, on my back and my arse, and I want it to hurt. But that's all, for today. The rest of that trunk, I should like to explore another time,” Silver says. “I don't want you to hit me with anything else that I'm not expecting, particularly not your hands,” he says, not looking at Flint because he knows he'd look too vulnerable and that won't do. He clears his throat and continues. “You can speak harshly to me, though, and tell me what I'm allowed to do, and what I'm not. You know how I enjoy it when you yell at me, it gets me off,” he says, smirking.

“Duly noted. We also ought to agree on a word,” Flint says from behind him. “A word where if you say it, I'll stop everything I'm doing immediately. It's necessary so that you can say things like ‘no’ and ‘don’t’ without me actually bringing the proceedings to a halt,” he explains patiently. “It needs to be a word you can remember in the heat of the moment, but not something you'd accidentally say. It's very important that you use the word if you need to, John. I'm trusting you implicitly here,” he says.

Silver turns his head to stare at Flint, wondering exactly how many times he’s done this if he's got this whole spiel prepared. He takes a deep breath, realizing Flint is waiting for him to pick the word. “Walrus,” he finally says, feeling himself blush deep red. It's a word he'll forever associate with Flint, but not one he can see himself saying by accident.

“Very good,” Flint says with a fond little smile. “If you say ‘walrus’ to me, I'll stop, no questions asked. Don't be concerned with disappointing me or letting me down, please. I know how difficult it can be for you not to worry about me and what I'm thinking, but this is for you, because you need it. That I happen to enjoy it also is just a delightful bonus. If you need me to stop, if you've had enough, you'll use the word. No matter what. Agreed?” he asks, placing one warm hand on Silver’s arse and rubbing gently, affectionately.

“Agreed,” Silver says, folding his arms and resting his head on them with his eyes closed. He tries not to tense up or brace himself, but he can feel his muscles tighten in anticipation anyway. Flint takes his hand away and Silver feels himself shiver. He waits.

The first thing he feels is no more than a tickle, just a whisper of the lash across his lower back. “Harder than that, I can take it,” he says insistently, because for him there's no point in doing this if it doesn't hurt.

“Hush. That isn't your decision to make. You need to cede control to me, you're not to make demands of me right now,” Flint says lowly from behind him. “Relax, John. Let me help you.”

Silver sighs but doesn't say anything else, waiting for another strike to come. The next is just as gentle as the first, but he says nothing, just wriggles his hips impatiently. He's been hard for some time now and the feeling of his cock rubbing against the soft sheets is a welcome one.

“Stop that wriggling,” Flint says, and _oh_ , there's the irritated voice he used to growl at Silver with when he was Silver’s captain. That does interesting things to Silver’s arousal - namely, increases it tenfold. “You are not to get off unless I give you permission.”

“Alright, fine,” Silver mutters with another aggravated little sigh, and the lash comes down a bit harder, making his skin tingle.

“The fuck did you say to me? Try that again, with respect this time,” Flint says in that same growling tone.

“Yes, sir,” Silver says before he can stop himself. He feels the light sting of the lash again, on his arse this time, and moans softly. It feels-- even better than he'd hoped. It hurts, yes, but the pain makes pleasure spark in him, makes him want more.

“That’s better,” Flint rumbles, pacified.

Silver feels him starting to build a rhythm, can hear the lash cutting through the air before it hits him. The strikes gradually get harder as Flint keeps going, and Silver can feel his cock starting to leak underneath him, trapped between his belly and the sheets. Flint still isn't striking him quite as hard as he thinks he'd like, so he pushes his hips back toward him in a not-so-subtle signal.

The lash abruptly stops coming down at all, and then Silver feels Flint’s hands on his hips, turning him over on to his back. “What do you think you're doing?” Flint asks, leaning down over Silver and taking his cock in hand, starting to stroke him at a torturously slow pace. He looks fierce, and dangerous. It just makes Silver want him more.

“I wanted it-- ahh, harder. You said I couldn't, couldn't make demands, so,” Silver stammers, Flint’s hand on him making it difficult to speak.

“So you thought you'd just stick your arse out at me? Like then I'd be compelled to do whatever you want?” Flint asks, stroking Silver almost disinterestedly. “You really haven't changed much since you were young,” he mutters. He lets go of Silver’s cock and turns him back over, leaving Silver disoriented and aching.

The lash starts coming down on him again, faster but no harder than before. Silver struggles to keep still, it feels so good. He curls his hands in the sheets and whimpers, pain and pleasure racing up his spine with each strike. His hips start rocking, unbidden, following the back-and-forth swing of the lash. To his horror, Flint stops again.

“I’m sorry,” Silver gasps before Flint can rebuke him or turn him over to tease his cock some more. “It’s just so hard to keep still,” he says, groaning in frustration.

“It feels good, does it?” Flint asks, grabbing a handful of Silver’s arse and squeezing hard, making him yelp. “You like it? You're getting off on it, I can tell. Do you want more?”

“It does, yes, I do, please,” Silver pants, feeling himself starting to get incoherent at how exquisite Flint is making him feel. Flint’s hand leaves him again and he feels the lash come down on his back, hard this time, just like he wants it. “Oh _fuck_ , thank you,” he gasps, then buries his face in his arms again, breathing hard.

Finally Flint is striking him hard, bringing the lash down on him with impressive force the way Silver needs him to. He feels it landing on his arse and his back over and over again, all the way up to his shoulders, leaving a burning, fiery trail of pleasure in its wake. He can feel the claws of the cat marring his skin, leaving welts, and it makes him feel so out of his mind with pleasure that he wonders dazedly how anyone could ever truly consider this a punishment.

Flint strikes him with the lash hard, once more, then pauses and turns him over again. Silver can feel tears in his eyes, his back and arse throbbing and bright with pain so good it makes him want to scream. “Who do you belong to?” Flint asks, and now he's playing with the ring in Silver’s nipple, turning and twisting it more roughly than he usually does. If he keeps that up Silver is going to come in short order, permission or no.

“You,” he manages to say through gritted teeth, looking up into Flint’s eyes. “Please, stop, I can't take it,” he gasps.

“Whose is this?” Flint asks, ignoring Silver’s pleas. He gives his nipple ring one last hard tug as he speaks, then lets go.

“Yours,” Silver pants, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he struggles to keep from touching himself or Flint.

“And this?” Flint asks, taking Silver’s cock in hand, making him yell as he starts stroking him again, slow and excruciating like before. 

“Yours, yours, _please_ , I'm going to come,” Silver says frantically, biting his lower lip hard. He's sure he can't hold on much longer.

“No, you're not. Because I haven't given you permission yet,” Flint says, and how the _fuck_ does he sound so calm when Silver is so desperate he's nearly incoherent. He lets go of Silver’s red, leaking cock and turns him over again, grabbing his arse and digging his fingers in, hard, making the welts from the lash ache beautifully. “And this, who does this perfect piece of flesh belong to? Whose banner is tattooed on you? Whose name do you shout when you come?” he growls, leaning down over Silver’s back to bite his ear.

“You, it's yours, I'm yours,” Silver sobs, pounding one fist on the bed in sweet agony. He's never wanted to come so badly in his entire life.

“Who loves you?” Flint asks almost tenderly, but Silver can't answer because Flint has started flogging him again, making him wail and writhe.

The blows rain down on him fast and hard, so much and so quickly he can't catch his breath. He sobs into the sheets under his face, panting and drooling and sweating, feeling like he's finally truly free, like he can give all of himself over to Flint. It feels like utter bliss, even as the lash digs into his skin and raises more angry welts.

Gradually the lash slows, becomes gentler, and finally stops, but this time he knows it isn't a rebuke. Then Flint’s hands are on him and he's on his back, barely aware of anything except the splendid pain and pleasure enveloping his whole body, making him feel like he's glowing.

“You can come now, I'm giving you permission,” Flint is saying quietly, and his hand is closing around Silver’s cock, touching it just the way he likes. 

It only takes half a dozen strokes before Silver finally feels his long-awaited orgasm wrack his body, making fresh tears run down his face as his come hits his chest and stomach. It seems to go on forever, aftershocks making him twitch and whimper while Flint tenderly helps him through them.

“Thank you,” Silver breathes when he can speak again, smiling at Flint through his tears. He hurts, but he feels so _good_ , so warm and alive, he wonders idly why he didn't insist on trying this sooner. 

Flint sits on the bed with him and puts the lash aside. He tenderly pulls Silver into his lap, putting his arms around him carefully and just holding him, letting Silver rest and recover in the security of his embrace. “You did so well, I'm so proud of you,” he whispers, then kisses Silver’s ear, the same one he bit before.

Silver blushes, hiding his face in Flint’s neck. “You seemed very sure of yourself, like you've done this often before. Have you?” he mumbles, shifting to get more comfortable in his lap. Flint doesn't seem to mind that Silver is a sweaty, sticky mess, so Silver presses against him, relishing in their closeness.

“I have, although in recent years I've been out of practice,” Flint says, nuzzling Silver. “I have long enjoyed being in control, as you no doubt know,” he says, laughing softly. “But I've also been on the receiving end of this cat before.”

“Really? I would've thought...” Silver muses, not bothering to finish his sentence because he's exhausted, and also because he knows that Flint knows his mind.

“That Thomas wasn't really the type to want to be in control of me? That he was some wilting flower who just submitted to me all the time? Surely you know by now that isn't my type,” Flint teases him lightly, then sighs softly against his skin. “You really did very well, you know, I wasn't just saying that.”

“Would you be willing to do that for me again sometime?” Silver asks hopefully, pressing light kisses along Flint’s neck. “Mm.”

“Of course,” Flint says, leaning forward to look over Silver’s shoulder. Admiring his handiwork, Silver thinks wryly. “I didn't break the skin, because I didn't want to. You're not bleeding but you will have some impressive welts for a little while. Keep your shirt on outside or people may ask some awkward questions,” he murmurs. “I'm going to draw us a bath, if you're amenable, and then once you're cleaned up I'll put something on your skin to help it heal faster.”

“That sounds perfect,” Silver says, then glances down between them. “But what about you? You're still...unsatisfied,” he says, putting one hand over Flint’s hard cock and squeezing him through his trousers.

“I suppose it is my turn now. I almost forgot, I was so focused on you,” Flint says with a little smile. “Go on, then,” he purrs in Silver’s ear.

Silver wastes no time in getting Flint’s trousers and breeches open, taking his cock out and starting to stroke him quickly. He can tell this isn't going to take long, if the way Flint is already panting and bucking up into his hand is any indication. He’s clearly worked himself into a lather, having resolutely ignored his own arousal in favor of giving Silver pleasure. “Come on. Please, let me, I want to see,” Silver murmurs, feeling Flint breathing harshly against his ear. “I earned it, didn't I? I took my punishment, I know my place. I belong to you and only you,” Silver whispers, and with that Flint comes in a rush between them, groaning as he coats Silver’s hand with his release.

They sit still for a long moment, Flint catching his breath as Silver hums happily and presses that much closer to him, uncaring about the sticky messes on his hand and both their bodies. He feels Flint’s teeth nibbling at the edge of his ear and snorts quietly. “You and your bizarre obsession with my ears,” he sighs fondly.

“They’re darling, and I refuse to be ashamed for my so-called bizarre obsession with them. I just like them, is all,” Flint slurs lazily, sated at last, giving Silver’s ear one last little nip. “Now I really ought to draw us a bath.”

Silver nods his acquiescence, moving reluctantly out of Flint’s lap and making himself comfortable in bed while he waits for Flint to go get the bath ready. “Oh, and James?” he says before Flint goes, reaching for his hand.

Flint lets him take it, looking at him curiously. “Yes?”

“I realized I never answered your last question. It's you, of course. You love me,” Silver says, feeling a wide grin spread over his face that he'd be helpless to hide even if he wanted to.

“And you love me,” Flint says, grinning back. He gives Silver’s hand a little squeeze and leans in to steal a kiss before he goes off to draw Silver a bath, shedding his remaining clothing on the way.

“Always,” Silver murmurs to his retreating form, feeling an unfamiliar but exceedingly welcome lightness in his body.

 

\---

 

_Epilogue, de Lioncourt’s tavern, upstairs:_

Max lies on his back, stretched out naked and sweaty with a likewise Claude next to him in the narrow bed, Claude’s head on his chest and his fingers combing idly through Max’s short hair.

“Sweetheart?” Max says, glancing down to catch Claude’s eye.

“Oui?” he replies, smiling dazedly at Max. He's a vision, all covered in bite marks and glowing with satisfaction. He should look like that all the time, Max thinks. He’ll have to make it his personal mission to keep Claude in such a state more or less permanently.

“You know your neighbors, those two old men across the road? They ain't actually cousins, they may as well be married,” Max says.

“I know,” Claude says, chuckling. “Everyone knows. No one cares. Please, the way they look at each other? You would have to be, how you say...blind, not to see.”

“Fuck me, the way you talk is adorable,” Max says, grinning crookedly at Claude. He hadn't intended to fall for this beauty with the wide dark eyes and the sultry French accent when they first met, he was just looking for a bit of fun. But here he is, still in Louisiane territory, still living in a depressing tavern room with a batshit crazy landlord, for one reason and one reason only. “And you know who your friend Jean Vane really is, aye?” he asks that reason.

“No...” Claude says, a sweet little frown creasing his forehead.

“He’s Long John Silver the pirate king, obviously,” Max says with a laugh, surprised Claude hadn't figured that out on his own. “Come on, the missing leg, the beard, all those tattoos? How fuckin’ shifty he gets when someone like me asks if he didn't used to be a sailor? He couldn't possibly be anyone else.”

“I had no idea,” Claude says, blinking a few times. “I will not tell a soul, of course. He must have his reasons for not wanting to be a pirate king anymore.”

“One reason in particular, I think,” Max says, surprising even himself with how tender his voice sounds. He didn't think he'd ever want to give up his own wild life as a fearsome buccaneer, but looking at Claude, he's beginning to understand the impulse.


End file.
